Ascendant
by Dr. Breifs Cat
Summary: A few ideas too small to take true story form presented as drabbles. PostAscession Part 2. PostXavier's vision, for that matter. RogueGambit.
1. A Deck of Those

Disclaimer: I acknowledge that what I am doing is illegal. And that disclaimers serve no other purpose.

**A Deck of Those**

Every now and then, after a battle or a training session, he'd ask her: "How many?"

She'd think for a moment, counting how many decks he had gone through since the last time he asked and say something like, "Sixteen," or "Thirty nine."

According to his explanations—and he had a lot to say on the subject of his playing cards—he was the joker. Both jokers, actually, the red one and the black one. His trademark was the Ace of Spades. The joker, Rogue accepted without any eye rolling or quips, since it did fit him, but having a trademark card made no sense. He used them all. Wouldn't it make more sense for playing cards in general to be his trademark?

That sort of talk made him huff like a child.

The King of Hearts he liked to use first, to make his introduction. Rogue smacked him for that.

The Queen of Hearts was his lucky lady, who he always saved for last and was always his saving grace. She said she could use a deck of those.

One day as they exited the Danger Room, Gambit asked, "How many?"

She mentally counted and after a moment said, "Fifty one."

He'd gone through about a deck and a half in training that day, produced the lonely Queen of Hearts from the finished deck and presented it to her. "Got yo'self a deck o' dose, chérie."

Later, she sandwiched her fifty two Queens between a black and red joker.


	2. The Symbolism Found In Outerwear

**The Extensive Symbolism Found In Outerwear **

To say Rogue loved her new X-Men costume would be a horrible understatement. With no more need to be covered up from neck to toe now that she could control her absorbing, she'd designed something low-cut with spaghetti strapped sleeves leaving, her arms and hands bare. The other girls had gone more risqué with their costuming as they aged and now that she could be on par with the likes of Boom Boom, who fought the good fight in leather pants and a handkerchief or Kitty and her bare midriff, Rogue was certainly going to. For the most part, the team had been nothing but supportive. They understood what being completely covered meant to Rogue, what being free enough to bare some skin meant to her.

Gambit's reaction had come as a surprise though. Rogue thought, he, of all people, would appreciate the change. If not just for the cleavage, but for all the times she'd railed against him or ranted to him about her powers; for all the times she'd wanted to touch him and turned away, for all the times she'd been unable to turn away and injured him. He knew better than any of the others, except maybe Xavier himself, what her powers meant, what her mastery over them meant. Yet still…the day she'd debuted her new uniform, he glared at her. Looked around the whole room at all the smiling faces of the full-fledged X-Men and the trainees. In the end, he didn't even say a thing, just turned away and stalked out of the briefing room, leaving everyone rather bewildered.

He returned only a few minutes later, with his old trench coat slung over an arm. He'd stopped wearing it when he joined the X-Men years back. Gambit had been angry about being left out of the last show down with Apocalypse and signed right up with the team once he'd heard about. Leaving the trench coat off his uniform had been a symbolic gesture on his part. He'd wanted to give up his thieving ways—the Guild knew that all too well, unfortunately—and surrendering all that pocket room seemed a good way to start.

Like a gentleman on a cold night, Gambit draped the coat over Rogue's shoulders. It had been large on him; on her, the hem nearly reached the ground and the sleeves swallowed up her hands, with only her pale fingers peeking out. He clasped his arms around her waist from where he stood behind her, holding her back to his chest and his chin at her shoulder. "Now why y' wanna be giving de bad boys de wrong idea?"

"Only one gettin' any ideas is you," she countered. "Can't help but notice ya'll lookin' down mah shirt, Cajun."

For good measure, she slugged him once she'd twisted out of his grip.

Kept the coat, though.


	3. Her Imaginary Illness

**_Sa Maladie Imaginaire_**

"Ya know," Rogue said, "It's not like Ah smile at ya because Ah like ya."

Gambit raised an eye brow at this.

"It's Stockholm Syndrome," she explained. "People start caring 'bout the cause o' their captors or thinkin' they like 'em, but really, they're just sick."

"Dat what the professor tell you after our little trip down to N'Awlins? Dat you jus' sick? Or de Wolverine?"

"No way, Logan would have skewered ya if Ah told 'im ya kidnapped meh. Ah told them ya asked for help."

"An' dey believed you?"

"Ah think so. Logan must of, 'cause ya don't look dead, an' telepaths have trouble readin' mah mind." She didn't actually think they believed her for a second, but no one had pressed the issue very far, so to everyone else, it was water under the bridge. It didn't matter, really. Gambit was an X-Man now, just like herself, Colossus and X-23, all of them former enemies who'd been accepted into the family.

Gambit couldn't really remember the last time he'd asked for anything.

"Dis sickness o' yours…you diagnosed yourself den?"

Trapped in the position that no one else even knew she'd been kidnapped, much less worried about syndromes, Rogue half-shrugged, half-nodded. "Ah researched it."

"'Cause you know, dose are never right."


End file.
